


Put Away Childish Things

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-24
Updated: 2007-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9317216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Sam/Gene slash, with mentions of Sam/Annie. Set after 2.08.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sam/Gene slash, with mentions of Sam/Annie. Set after 2.08.

**'and they all go marching'**

 

Sam’s shoulder crunched into the wall with a sickening crack. “Watch it, boys, he’s got a shooter.”

Chris nodded furiously. “And she’s got a stabber.”

“A stabber?” Sam asked, incredulous look on his face. He leaned into Chris. “What the hell’s a stabber? Do you perhaps mean a knife, Chris?”

“Tyler, shut your hole. Chris is merely communicating that the bird’s got something that’ll mar your pretty pouty face, okay? Now, if we could decide whether to try and take them on, or keep legging it, I’d appreciate it.”

“Take them on,” Sam replied immediately. “There’s three of us, two of them.”

“As we’ve seen, they have fully operational weapons and unless you’re hiding something down your trouser leg, we’ve got nothing but brains and brawn.”

Sam took deep breaths and turned Gene’s words over in his mind, trying to figure out an angle to convince Gene that his course of action was the best. He snapped his fingers. “We’ve got the element of surprise.”

“Right, Chris, get the birthday candles,” Gene said, jabbing his head forward. Chris stared at him blankly as he continued, “We’ll light ‘em and sing “for he’s a jolly good fellow” at the top of our lungs. It’ll work like a charm.”

“I’m serious. They’re not expecting us to make a stand, are they?”

Sam rose on his haunches gently, shifting the balance of weight in his body. Gene similarly dragged one of his feet forward, turning to face Sam.

“For good reason. Those who go against those better equipped belong in bedlam.”

“And quitters don’t win.”

“This isn’t a game, Tyler. We’re not playing football in the park.”

“Wish we were,” Chris chimed in. “We should start a team, Guv. I reckon Ray’d be a great goalkeeper. He’s always blocking my shots when we play in the office.”

“Great idea, Chris, I think it’d really boost CID morale,” Sam said with a grin and a pointed eyebrow quirk at Gene.

Chris was oblivious to the sarcastic undertone of Sam’s words. He grinned back. “Thanks, boss.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, could you two button it. I’m trying to think, here.”

“The great Gene Hunt doesn’t think. He just does.”

“Good point.”

Gene placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushed back. Sam went crashing to the ground, a few chosen words spilling from his lips as he went to collect himself. Gene edged around the corner, his coat dragging along the glistening tarmac.

That was when the sirens sounded, coming from the top of Leeming road and toward them with what felt like fierce determination. Within minutes there were engines coming to a halt, doors opening and closing, and Ray and Annie brandishing their badges as they told Sandy and Sunny to get on the ground. Arrests were made.

Locking the suspects away was the easiest part of the job. It was an hour until knocking off time and Gene very kindly gave them a few early minutes. They arrived en masse at the Railway Arms as the sky took on a bright pink hue, the clouds dispersing and the sun slowly sinking below the horizon line.

Chris bought the first round. He hadn’t intended to, but Ray made sure. Annie recounted the capture of the criminals to Geoff and Clive, using what Sam thought was an overwhelmingly cheerful voice upon describing coming across Chris, Gene and Sam, hunkering behind a brick wall.

Sam bought the second round. It seemed only fair. Chris had nervously started mumbling about needing money for the pictures on Saturday and he knew no one else would plump up the cash. Gene asked for a whisky chaser. Or rather, he demanded it, vigorously, with a hand like a vice on the back of Sam’s neck.

They sat together, licking their wounds as various other members of CID attempted to pour salt in them. Their conversation quickly turned to who had been most useless in the crisis situation. Sam would have liked to say he was losing this particular battle, but he had to quietly concede to himself that Gene, perhaps, had a point or five.

“Oh, you were doing a magnificent job there, Susie,” Gene reiterated, pointing his index finger in accusation.

“And so were you, Jeanette.”

“You did not just call me that.”

“I did.” Sam narrowed his eyes and took another sip of beer. “And I think I’ll keep doing it, too.”

“You know, I’ve always known you were trouble.”

“Delightful, charming trouble.”

“With an ego the size of Barbara Windsor’s chest and the make-up to match.”

“How many times do I have to tell you this is all natural?”

Sam waited for a typically caustic Gene Hunt response, but it didn’t come. Gene finished his drink and said he was off home, leaving Sam with the beginnings of a headache and half a pint of beer. He downed the beer, hard earned as it had been, and wandered home himself. It was only when he was lying on his cot that he allowed a grin to spread across his face.

Sometimes, life was brilliant.

*

The next few cases that presented themselves required less running down streets and more filing reports. Sam secretly felt this was a curse as opposed to a blessing. This didn’t stop him from being anally retentive when it came to regulating report format. When Paul handed up half of his report written on the back of a picture of a topless model, Sam made him go back and rewrite it, amidst a vocal chorus of disapproval. He gave the offending evidence of laziness to Gene, who confiscated it, ‘for assessment purposes’.

“You persist in making everything that much more work for everyone. Just because you’ve no life, you want others to suffer in like mind.”

“No, I just have a healthy concept of thorough.”

Gene raised his eyebrows. “Sam Tyler and healthy aren’t words I’ve ever had in the same sentence before.”

Despite Gene’s words of remonstration, he, like Sam, spent many late evenings in CID. They would work, separated by methodology and physical space – Gene in his office, Sam at his desk. Or sit talking on Gene’s settee. Or, on a couple of memorable occasions, going through the Collator's Den together, sorting and discussing previous cases. Sam tried broaching the subject of Gene’s prolonged absence from home once or twice, but was met with stony silence. Sam didn’t explain why he was there instead of on dates with Annie.

Gene started telling Sam stories about his youth, dwelling in the past, although he said he didn’t like to. Sam would do the same, but had to be careful in what he chose to say. He didn’t want to lie to Gene, he’d done enough of that. He had to omit, gloss over, avoid. He did tell Gene about breaking his arm when he was twelve and Gene joked about the dangers of him now knowing another area of weakness should he need a tactical awareness next time they fought. Sam insisted they wouldn’t lay hands on one another anymore and Gene punched him quickly and violently in the lower abdomen, just to prove a point. Sam, of course, punched back. They were bloodied and bruised the next day, but still talking to each other. Cheerfully, in fact.

Annie expressed her inability to understand their relationship when Sam finally took her to dinner the next evening.

“You’re always against each other,” she said halfway through the meal, a small frown creasing her forehead.

“It keeps the blood pumping.”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but wouldn’t it be easier to just get along?”

Sam shrugged. “We do get along. In our own way.” He picked at his food with his fork, skewering a piece of chicken. “I like it the way it is. It’s not like I’m the Moriarty to his Holmes.”

“You’re not the Watson, either.”

“And I wouldn’t want to be. Why does it bother you anyway, Annie?”

“I think it’s counter-productive.”

“Did you just say that, or are my ears deceiving me? You’re beginning to sound like me, there. It’s a bit worrying.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s only room for one Sam Tyler at the station. You should concentrate on being WDC Annie Cartwright.”

Annie’s eyes hardened. “Putting me in my place, Sir?”

Sam sensed that there was little humour in her words. “No.” He shook his head, extending his hand. “No, Annie.”

Annie didn’t look into Sam’s eyes when she finally spoke. “I don’t think it’s working out between us.”

“Sorry?”

“I like you, Sam. I more than like you. But working with you and dating you, it’s… too much.”

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. He dug his fork into another piece of chicken and contemplated it. He spoke quietly. “What you’re really saying is that I’m too much.” Annie didn’t respond and Sam continued, his voice quickening in pace, but not pitch. “So that’s it, is it? A few weeks of grand romance and you’re dumping me.”

Annie stared at the table and took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Sam nodded to himself. He stared at Annie and willed her to look into his eyes, so that she could see that he understood. She did, eventually, her eyes glistening and her cheeks turning pink.

“It’s probably for the best.”

They chatted some more, reassuring one another that they would still work together with few problems. Sam wasn’t entirely sure he believed it. All he knew was that a large part of what he was feeling was relief and he hated that, didn’t understand how, couldn’t figure out why the emotion he had thought was burgeoning love dissipated after a couple of weeks. It wasn’t Annie – she was wonderful; beautiful, intelligent, sweet. She was everything he had dreamed about as a boy, the perfect wife. It was him. It was them, together.

Sometimes, life was confusing.

*

As predicted, things weren’t smooth. Ray took every opportunity he could to rub the relationship failure in Sam’s face and one day he snapped, had Ray on the ground, his fist raised in the air and his teeth bared in rage. Gene dragged him off and Sam yelled at him for half an hour, asking why he wasn’t allowed just retribution. Gene remained calm throughout the exchange, disturbingly calm, not laying a hand on Sam, just letting him scream. He gave Sam a couple of new cases to work on and said he’d speak with Ray. Ray never said another word.

Sometimes, life… well, it just was.

 

**'a merry old soul was he'**

 

“So there we were, running like mad, yeah? And Mickey, well, he falls arse over tit, screaming at the top of his lungs like he’s being attacked by a bear. I had to go over and drag him up, whilst Brian were making these God-awful siren noises. I’m bloody lucky to be here today, ‘cause our Headmaster was the hardest nut around. I base some of my interrogation techniques on his.”

Gene ended with a grin and Sam laughed, the beer in his glass sloshing over onto the coaster as he set it down. Gene placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him enthusiastically.

“Don’t you have anything similar? I can see you now, the little weasel you invariably were. You must’ve got up to murder with your lot. Little Timmy crawling under cars. Best friend Johnny throwing rocks at people. And you keeping a lookout.”

“We moved about a lot when I was a kid. When I did make friends, I was mostly friendly with girls.”

Gene’s grin widened. “Why am I not surprised? You’d a childhood of tea parties, right?”

“No. No, if we weren’t playing doctors and nurses, we’d be climbing trees and stuff. Mostly what you were doing with your boy friends, but-”

Gene interrupted. “They were not ‘boyfriends’.”

“There was a space there. Boy. Friends. Friends who are boys.”

“You better make sure you keep that straight.”

Sam laughed again. There was a moment of silence as they listened to the jukebox playing George Harrison. Sam tilted his head to the side and looked Gene in the eye. “I didn’t really have a very happy time when I was growing up.”

“Me neither. And not just ‘cause of the old man. Let's put it this way - when I was five we’d been through one war and we were about to be in another. Manchester streets were ruled by fear. It’s partly the reason I became a cop. Wanted to make things safe.”

“And yet --- you rule by fear,” Sam said, an almost nervous jerk to his movement as he leaned back.

Gene played with the lighter in his hand, flicking the lid open and closing it again. “They had it right, didn’t they? Like Mr Growler, my old Headmaster. You have to. Create fear and gain respect. It’s the only way.”

“And if it weren’t? If our prisons rehabilitated instead of just locking up? If we relied upon trust instead of suspicion?”

“If. We don’t have time for ifs,” Gene said. “And rehabilitation? It’s a load of shit. People don’t change.”

“Yes they do. You did.”

“Oh really? When?”

“Well, you listen to me sometimes, for a start,” Sam replied, with a twitch of his hand.

“And you think that’s me changing, do you? It’s not that I’ve always been inclined to listen to skinny blokes with too many opinions?”

“You stopped taking backhanders.”

“Because I never wanted to take ‘em in the first place. That’s not change, Sam. I’m still the same person that I was when I were being chased down the street by an angry school caretaker at age eleven. Terrified, but determined, and sure I know exactly what’s best.”

“You’re terrified?”

“Every day. Nearing on every hour. But unlike some, who clamp their hands over their ears and ‘la la la’ along, I do what I have to do.”

Sam put his hand on Gene’s briefly, the warmth sending a small pulse up his arm. Gene didn’t tell him to move. “You’re a man of constant surprises.” He pointed to Gene’s empty glass. “D’you want another?”

“Yeah,” Gene replied. “Actually, no. Make it a whisky chaser.”

Sam stood, edging toward the bar. Nelson stopped cleaning the glass he was holding and nodded in Gene’s direction. “A difficult day, mon brave?”

“Yeah.” Sam rubbed his forehead as he leaned on the solid wood. “They found the body of a young boy in the canal. The dad was an old friend of Gene’s.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do, Nelson. It’s not a singular event. We have to deal with this kind of thing all the time.”

“And I hear your stories, Sam - during the day, in the evening.” Nelson finished pouring the whisky and waved away Sam’s money. “On the house.” He dipped his head closer and lost the Jamaican accent. “Just this one round, mind. I’ve the rent to pay.”

Sam took the drinks Nelson placed on the bar with gratitude and shuffled back to Gene’s side. Gene was staring into the distance, all trace of earlier good humour evaporating into the smoke-filled air.

Sam sat down and brought the rim of his glass to his lips. “I do have one tale that I think will sustain your interest,” he said, instead of taking a sip. “It involves looking up skirts.”

Gene’s attention swivelled to rest on Sam. “You filthy bastard.”

*

“Are you coming, Annie?” Sam asked. Things were still slightly strained between them. Sometimes she would smile at him, but the expression wouldn’t reach her eyes. Or he would avoid going to the canteen because he knew she would be there. Mostly, they worked together well.

“No, I’m working on the case of a lost slipper with Chris.”

“That sounds --- interesting. The Guv’s assigned you a fairytale?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he did, but this is actually a genuine crime, by the sound of it.”

“Good luck then,” Sam offered unhelpfully. He made his way to the Cortina, the engine already revving.

They were supposed to only be watching the shop, but it was immediately apparent that criminal activity had already begun. Several high-pitched screams floated from the establishment as soon as they exited the Cortina. It almost sounded like the screams were directed at them, but the noises continued, even as they stood stock still, trying to determine which action to take. Eventually, after what seemed like minutes, Gene sprang into battle. Sam was hot on his heels.

Sam recognised the man standing by the counter, waving a knife around. They had arrested him a month before for a similar crime. He’d managed to find a lawyer who knew his business and had been let off on a technicality. As soon as he saw Sam and Gene, he ran swiftly out the door. A man who Sam assumed was the shop owner was on the floor, clutching his arm and gasping wildly.

“Myocardial infarction,” Sam said seriously. Gene stared at him and Sam moved his hand expressively whilst he explained. “Heart attack.”

“I know what it is, Tyler. I was just wondering about your persistent need to state the bloody obvious in elaborate language.”

Sam would have frowned and opened his mouth to retort, but Ray came barrelling in alongside them. “He’s getting away.”

Gene signalled for Sam to stay with the shop owner, as he and Ray chased after Fielding. Sam did so, calling the ambulance, trying to be a comfort and most likely failing, given the man’s response to his words.

The ambulance arrived before Gene came back. Sam packed Barry off, explaining the circumstances to the ambulance drivers, and lamented their inability to do anything for someone who really needed medical attention immediately. He waited at the shop for the Cortina to arrive again. He waited for an hour and eventually realised that he’d be making his own way to the station.

“Nice of you to come back for me,” Sam said as he walked into CID. Ray smirked as he looked up from his desk, but Gene, who was standing talking to Clive, merely shrugged.

“Thought you’d wanna stay with the bloke with the dicky ticker, Florence.”

“Yeah well, maybe if we’d co-ordinated it a bit better...”

Gene finished the sentence. “You wouldn’t’ve had to catch the bus.”

“Basically,” Sam deadpanned.

“Swallow some of your pride, Napoleon.”

“Have you interviewed Fielding yet?”

“’Course not. I was waiting for my second in command to wrap his head around the concept of public transportation.”

“Ask a silly question…”

“And get a dead accurate answer.”

“I guess now is as good a time as any to start then, Guv.”

Gene nudged his shoulder into Sam’s as he walked past.

Lost & Found housed the not-so-lost soul of Peter Fielding. Fielding had robbed a string of shops at knifepoint. He also knew the whereabouts of another armed robber they’d been after for a fortnight.

They asked a myriad of questions and received little reply. Gene lowered his head, looming over Fielding, He grabbed Fielding’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes. At that moment, Gene looked animalistic, inhuman, like he might belong bounding over raw African veldt, as opposed to a smoke-filled room. And something in Sam wanted to be bounding with him.

“Tell me what I wanna hear. Now.”

“Fuck off.”

*

“This is just typical,” Sam muttered quietly.

He lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling. His hand brushed idly down his chest to his stomach, resting just by his hip. He groaned in frustration. He was thinking about Gene. He didn’t know why. They hadn’t recently argued. They weren’t currently embroiled in a battle of wills. But he kept seeing Gene’s face, replaying conversations. Gene’s voice sounded in his mind and Sam’s cock twitched.

He rolled over onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit.”

**'he played knick knack on my knee'**

 

The weeks wore on and Sam found his awareness of Gene’s presence grow stronger than it had ever been before. Whenever he was in the same room as Gene, his pulse quickened. It was ridiculous. He felt like a young teen again, swooning over the best looking kid in class. But Gene wasn’t the best looking kid. Gene was far from the best looking kid. And Sam was too old for any of it anyway.

He gained enhanced sensations from their proximity, and it seemed that he spent increased time in Gene’s company. The criminal side of Manchester was ostensibly working double bubble; slow days were rare. And if they weren’t working, they were drinking, playing poker or darts, perhaps even having dinner together. Sam hated it and loved it at the same time, because being with Gene was thrilling in ways it shouldn’t have been.

There were no words. Nothing Sam could say. He wanted to try and distance himself, but every time he tried, he brought them closer together. Gene responded to any offensive phrase by slamming Sam into a wall, or the Cortina, or, on one memorable occasion, the settee in his office. Instead of further apart, they’d be skin on skin. It would be so easy for Sam to ease forward and kiss Gene. He could just place his hands by the side of Gene’s head, push his lips against Gene’s and wait for the reaction.

Most of the time, Sam had a keen sense that if he ever did what he thought about late at night, he’d lose Gene forever. But there was the odd moment when the possibility that Gene might kiss him back presented itself. He’d catch Gene staring at him and there’d be a glint in his eye he couldn’t decipher, or Gene would rest his hand on Sam’s thigh, after the third drink, but before the fifth. And it was decidedly un-1973, Sam decided, as he waited in a shop, the way Gene would tell Sam things he surely hadn’t told anyone else.

“That’ll be 10p,” the man behind the counter said in the monotonous tone of the very bored. Sam paid, took the packets of crisps and went back to the Cortina. That was something they did a lot; what Sam called surveillance and Gene called nosing about.

Settling into the car and staring out the windshield, Sam asked the expected question and was given the inevitable reply. He looked across at Gene, who puffed out his cheeks and opened his smoky bacon crisps.

“How bored are you right now?”

“I don’t get bored. There’s always something to occupy my mind, even if there’s nothing to occupy my body.”

“Like what?”

“Well, when you were out of the car, I was wondering where you got your swagger from.”

“Is this slang I haven’t picked up, or…” Sam tailed off, not knowing any alternative option.

Gene frowned. “The way you walk.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Must be the boots.” Sam hunched his shoulders and frowned in reflection with Gene. “Hang on - you were thinking about me walking down the street?”

Gene opened his eyes wider. “Yeah, that’s not weird, is it?”

“It’s a bit weird.”

“Fine, then. Next time I’ll tell you I was thinking about tits.”

“Even if you were really thinking about me?”

“Well, yeah – the tit that you are. Then it wouldn’t be a complete lie.”

Sam smiled despite himself. He moved to lightly punch Gene’s arm, but Gene grabbed his wrist and wouldn’t let go. His fingers were a vice and Sam was sure Gene would be able to feel his pulse rattling at double the acceptable pace. When Gene finally started to give Sam back his wrist, he did so slowly, his fingers brushing teasingly against his skin. The action seemed too provocative to be accidental. Sam found himself unable to speak.

Gene’s eyes were intense, holding Sam’s attention as forcefully as Gene had been holding Sam physically. Heat rose in Sam’s body, spreading from his spine up and over his skin, tingling and taunting. He shifted position in his seat, edging closer to Gene. A trickle of sweat slid slowly down Sam’s forehead to the hollow of his neck and Gene’s eyes flicked away from Sam’s to follow its progress, his tongue running over his lower lip as he did so.

A crashing sound hailing from nearby dust bins broke the contact between them. They left the Cortina to check the origin of the noise. It turned out to be a stray cat. When they returned to the leather interior, the moment was gone and Sam didn’t know if the emotion thumping against his chest was disappointment or joy. He suspected it to be a combination.

*

There were days that seemed endless, especially when they had to interview suspects who were less than agreeable and inclined to do stupid things like spit at them. The man they had hauled from the cells to Lost & Found that day had been particularly odious.

“He’s like Uriah Heep, he is,” Gene said, visibly shuddering as he wrung his hands in imitation of their suspect.

Sam scrunched up his nose. “How is he like a rock band?”

“No, from _Oliver Twist_ , I thought you were the literary-minded one in this partnership?” Gene barked, raising his hand in mock-threat.

“I think you mean _David Copperfield_ , Guv,” Ray piped up, before turning quickly away as Gene rounded on him in ferocity. Annie initially laughed and then closed her mouth with a snap upon seeing his reaction.

When the day was done, most of CID left for the pub or to go home. Sam stayed typing up his report. He wasn’t aware that Gene had remained behind too. Sam had tried to avoid late night sessions with Gene, thinking that there was an underlying current of danger in the action. He had just finished checking over his work for errors when Gene loomed out of the shadows, presumably having come into the office from another part of the station.

“They get real pleasure out of causing mischief and mayhem.”

Sam swivelled, not letting shock affect his movements.

“Who do?”

“They do.”

“Who’s they?”

“You know. Them.”

“Right,” Sam said, although he had no idea what Gene was going on about, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“You done here? I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s alright. I can walk.”

“It may be summer, but it’s still nippy.”

“And I’m a grown man who can take care of himself.”

Gene adjusted his coat and tipped his chin back, blasé. “Alright, whatever you want. Just trying to be nice.”

“You? Nice? What was that you once said to me? Gene Hunt and nice aren’t words I’ve ever had in the same sentence before.”

“Then you’ve been sadly deprived.”

Sam stood. He swayed slightly and Gene caught his arm, bringing him upright. “Okay then,” Sam said, his voice coming out lower than normal, throaty. “I’ll let you drive me.”

“You’re too kind,” Gene said laconically, not taking his hand off Sam’s arm until they’d reached the door.

Sam didn’t speak during the short car ride. He didn’t speak when Gene mounted the stairs up to his flat and followed him in. He silently passed Gene a tumbler of scotch as Gene sat in one of his chairs. He wandered over to the reel-to-reel and set it playing.

“You’ve been acting funny around me lately,” Gene said, after taking a swig of scotch. Sam was tempted to push him out of the flat. He flexed his shoulders instead, rolling his head around to loosen the muscles at the back of his neck.

“I have?”

Gene looked unconvinced by Sam’s act of innocence. “Funnier than usual and that’s remarkable in itself.”

“I can’t think of a suitable response,” Sam said honestly. He sat opposite Gene, on his cot, undoing his top button in an attempt to alleviate his inability to breathe. He realised too late how intimate an act it was, when Gene rearranged his legs and avoided looking at him. “I, er, I guess it’s stress.”

This wasn’t a lie. It was the same as his childhood stories – the truth – only with details omitted and glossed over.

“I’ll let you get your beauty sleep, then. Lord knows, you look like you need it.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Sam said, surprising himself as much as Gene. “Not yet,” he qualified. “Have one more.”

The reel-to-reel played Led Zeppelin – “What is and What Should Never Be”. In Sam’s mind, the title was terrifyingly apt.

*

“One of these days, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Gene panted as they turned into the alleyway. Another day, another potentially life-threatening situation.

“Me? How is this my fault?”

“It was your idea to be here, you’re the pillock who riled the stupid bastard up. If that’s not your fault, you also don’t have short brown hair and scrawny arms.”

Sam opened his mouth in protest. “I certainly don’t have scrawny arms. Next you’ll be calling me a weakling. I’ve held my own plenty of times against your assaults, have I not?”

“They were just love taps.”

“Love taps, hey? Oh, I’ll show you a love tap.”

Sam shoved Gene into the bricks and kissed him. He let his tongue slip into Gene’s open mouth and pressed close into the camelhair coat. His heart rate increased and the steady beat reverberated through his mind. Rather than resisting, Gene tilted his head and kissed Sam back, sliding his hand down Sam’s shirt.

When they finally pulled apart, the siren that had been blaring in the distance increased in volume. Sam realised it meant that the police car they had frantically requested ten minutes before was at the end of the street.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Gene slash, with mentions of Sam/Annie. Set after 2.08.

**'i'll grind his bones to make my bread'**  
  
  
The things they didn’t say were louder than the things they did say. And their actions louder still. Sam expected a great deal of denial. It didn’t come. No, the next time they were alone, Gene had Sam up against another wall, lips and hands and constant movement. When Gene’s mouth left his and started to nip a line down the side of his neck and over his collarbone, Sam bit his lower lip to stifle a moan, because the next time they were alone was in the Lost & Found at the station.   
  
“This is bad,” Sam said, the heat of Gene’s hand through his shirt sending logic into a spin. “I mean, it’s good, it’s really good, but it’s bad.” Sam groaned quietly as Gene raised his head and nibbled on his earlobe. “Fuck, Gene, stop.”  
  
Gene stepped away, holding his hands out and looking shocked at his own actions. He sucked in a breath. It finally appeared to occur to him that they were at their place of work, because he cleared his throat and walked out of the room, leaving Sam to stare at his retreating back.  
  
Sam attempted to get into a working order, but he was reeling from everything that had happened. He kept replaying the thought, over and over – Gene had kissed him back, had kissed him again, had touched and sought and savoured.   
  
He swallowed once or twice, flung his head back and looked at the ceiling, gaining his bearings. One office romance gone to hell and another commenced within a year. Romance. With Gene. Sam gave a wry grin and shook his head. He followed Gene’s earlier path and travelled to CID.   
  
“Daphne, apparently we need your expert opinion down morgue,” Gene commanded upon his arrival. He wasn’t looking at Sam, instead focussing his attention on Chris’s bacon buttie.   
  
“Okay, what with?”  
  
The sarcasm couldn’t have been thicker. “I’ve no idea. What d’you usually find down morgue?”  
  
“The pathologist?”  
  
“Stop playing silly buggers and get down there,” Gene yelled. Sam started to do as he was told, but Gene caught his arm. “On second thoughts, I’ll go with you. See what all the fuss is about.”  
  
Oswald greeted them with a beckoning wave, although he practically ignored Gene. “Detective Inspector, I wanted a quick second opinion.”  
  
“And you asked for me?”  
  
“You know more about forensics than anyone else in CID,” Oswald replied matter-of-factly. Gene sniffed. Oswald indicated to a dish lying by the corpse of a man who appeared to be in his late thirties.   
  
“What do you think this is?”   
  
Sam leaned down and viewed the thin black filament. “It’s fibre of some kind.”  
  
“Ah, yes, but there’s the rub - what kind?”  
  
“Well, it looks synthetic,” Sam said, unsure. He shrugged. He was finding it difficult to concentrate with Gene standing nearby, sensations from their earlier encounter still wrapping around his body as he tried to urge them from his mind. Phrases like ‘male bonding’ twisting within him, mocking and cruel.   
  
“That’s what I was thinking. To me, it looks like a strand of artificial fur. It was found underneath his toenail.”  
  
Sam considered this carefully. Preliminary research into the man’s home life had pointed to his being a lad about town. “You think it could be a clue as to his death?”  
  
“Could be, could be,” Oswald said. “I’ll continue discussions with my colleagues and give you some answers within the week.”   
  
On the walk back, Sam mused that they’d need more than that to secure a conviction. “What we need to do is find other clues, talk to witnesses. Who’s working this case?”  
  
“Geoff and Phil. Who are you, anyway? Hercules Poirot?” Gene butchered the pronunciation, saying the ‘h’ and ending the last name with ‘rot’.  
  
“It’s _Hercule Poirot_ ,” Sam corrected, remembering secondary school French, but not mentioning that the great little detective was Belgian. “And no, but we are detectives, Gene, no matter how many times you stress that you’re a sheriff.”  
  
“You say that as if you think I’ve no idea I’m your DCI.”  
  
“Mine, are you?” Sam teased. The next words that left his lips arrived before he could think about them. “Are you coming home with me tonight?”  
  
Gene pierced him with a warning look and they went about separate business, not exactly avoiding each other, but not actively working together either. It was only at the end of the day, with Gene lingering by his desk, fidgeting with the paper in his typewriter, that Sam had his answer.  
  
The ride was as tense as the last time, with streetlights illuminating the inside of the Cortina, but not Sam or Gene’s thoughts. They stumbled down the corridor, Sam acutely aware of his heightened excitement as he struggled to push his key in the lock. Achieving success, he barely had time to get through the door and close it behind them before Gene wrapped his arm around his waist.   
  
This kiss was slow and calculated. Sam had designs on driving Gene to the edge of his limits. His lips gently slid over Gene’s until he deepened the kiss, his five o’clock shadow brushing against Gene’s stubble. The only thought that echoed through his mind was that this was finally them. There was no verbal articulation of the notion.  
  
*  
  
“There are things you don’t know about me,” Sam said. He lifted his head and stared up at Gene.   
  
“If I don’t know them, I don’t care about them,” Gene replied, clipped and dismissive. He stroked his hand over Sam’s head and urged him forward. Sam momentarily resisted.   
  
“Really? Not at all?”  
  
“If they were important, you’d’ve told me.” Gene nudged forward. “Now, I know you like to torment me, Tyler, but even this is beyond your usual level of prickishness.”  
  
Sam quirked an eyebrow and grinned up at Gene, gnashing his teeth a couple of times. “It could get worse if you don’t stop harassing me.”  
  
Gene didn’t seem to be perturbed. He looked down at Sam through lowered eyelashes and waited. His open shirt fluttered against his skin as Sam let his hands wander. The floor was hard under his knees, but Sam didn’t care about that as much as he did the exploration of parts of Gene he’d never thought he’d get to experience. Parts of Gene he had been thinking about for weeks. He wet his lips and got to know Gene, physically as well as mentally, still avoiding some aspects, but devoting himself to others.  
  
When Sam was satisfied he had a captive audience, he commenced licking the underside of Gene’s cock, placing his hand gently at the base. He sucked the tip into his mouth and Gene surged forward. Gene started groaning deeply, his chest rising and falling as Sam pulled off, swirled his tongue around and brought Gene’s cock back into his warmth. Gene’s fingers clawed his hair, but couldn’t gain purchase. He rocked backwards and forwards, pushing deeper. Sam adjusted position, increasing speed.   
  
Gene came with a low guttural noise. Sam rested his forehead against Gene’s body as he gained his breath. Gene moved eventually, dragging Sam up from his knees and hastily undoing his belt. Sam was painfully hard, halfway to senseless. Gene undid his trousers and they fell to the floor, pooling at his ankles. He divested Sam of his shirt next, flinging it to the corner of the room. Sam expected Gene to attend to his leaking cock, but he didn’t. He teased Sam just as Sam had teased him, licking down his body, tonguing his nipples, stroking and smoothing, but not anywhere that mattered to Sam at that current moment in time. He knelt on the floor and touched everywhere but where Sam wanted it most.  
  
“Stop being such an arsehole,” Sam demanded, as Gene made another maddening swipe of his tongue over Sam’s hip. He shuffled to elicit more contact, but Gene shuffled with him, pulling away. “You are such a fucking-”  
  
Gene grasped hold of his cock and pulled, slightly more forcefully than Sam would have liked. He stood again, one hand at the top of Sam’s forearm as the other slid up and down in more sensitive areas. Sam tipped his head back and rolled his hips into the action. Gene’s hand was slick and tight and hot.   
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sam moaned, voice thick and low.   
  
“And you usually so wordy. God, if I’d’ve known the best way to shut you up was to bring you off, I’d’ve tried this technique months ago.”  
  
“Fuck yes.” Sam concentrated, closing his eyes and taking deep gasps of breath between words. “I didn’t think you knew anything about proper procedure, but you appear to be more than equipped to fulfill normal… protocol.”  
  
Gene laughed, tightening his grip and placing his mouth on Sam’s. He silenced Sam and aroused him, until he was pushed off the edge and into oblivion.   
  
*  
  
Sam found the next few days the other side of bearable. Every time he looked at Gene he saw red, wet lips he wanted to press against and long fingers that felt fantastic against his skin.  
  
He cornered Gene in a cubicle of the men’s toilets. “I don’t much like the thought of a secret life,” he whispered, doing his best not to attack Gene then and there.  
  
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to make do,” Gene replied calmly. “Funnily enough, I’m not planning on making a departmental announcement.”  
  
“Obviously. I don’t much want to get lynched, either.”  
  
“You have a melodramatic soul, Gladys.”  
  
“And you have a melodramatic body.”  
  
Gene gave him the ghost of a sideways grin and Sam couldn’t help but feel the corners of his own mouth twist upwards in reply. He splayed his hand against Gene’s chest and leaned forward, bruising Gene’s lips with a hard, fierce kiss.  
  
 **'stone so strong will last so long'**  
  
  
Any time they were alone, Sam would do his best to restrain himself and fail miserably. Knowing that he could touch Gene made the inclination stronger. Most nights, instead of going to the Railway Arms, they went to his flat. It wasn’t the world’s best space, the cot made some things hell, but it was all they had and they took it. Frequently. Sam learned all of the ways to drive Gene mad, where to press his fingers to get Gene to shiver, how to make Gene buck against him. And Gene had always had the ability to push his buttons, but now he did it to bring Sam pleasure. Thumping, blistering pleasure.   
  
Work was going okay, life outside of work was going better than okay. Sam let any troubles niggling at his brain dance away into the ether. Happiness was a word in his vocabulary once again.  
  
They still made sure they turned up at the pub on occasion, otherwise they’d raise suspicion, but as they had done so before, they often sat together, discussing cases.   
  
“Why do you do the things you do?” Gene asked one evening, surprising Sam out of a reverie that had involved him thinking about squeezing Gene’s arse and softly biting at the juncture between his neck and shoulder.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“The job. This?”  
  
“The same as you. To make others feel the way I feel.”  
  
“Panic stricken?”  
  
“Safe.”  
  
“You feel safe? What are you on, Tyler?” Gene asked affectionately. Sam’s lips curved and he shrugged, drawing in a deep breath. Gene let out an exaggerated sigh. Sam knew the look on his face, mock resignation, but there was passion that burned beneath it. “Leaving the pub for the night,” Gene said; a statement, not a question.  
  
“Yes,” Sam intoned readily. He took his jacket off the back of his chair and pulled his arms through its sleeves.   
  
When back in Sam’s flat, Sam grabbed hold of Gene’s kipper tie and pulled him deeper into the room. He wrapped his arms around the trunk of Gene’s body and held him, just held him, no lips, no roving hands. Gene leaned some of his weight into Sam and stayed still, but his cock nudged insistently at Sam’s thigh and he didn’t want to neglect it. He ground his hips and pulled Gene’s head down to kiss him.   
  
Gene didn’t stay the night. He left after a couple of hours. Sam didn’t admit that he might feel a measure of disappointment. He wasn’t holding any illusions as to where they stood, not really. Gene had a wife and Sam had --- Sam had nothing he thought he’d have, when he imagined his future life as a young boy who moved from one side of Manchester to another. But he didn’t mind. He still had everything he needed.  
  
He let that thought console him as he ran after yet another criminal intent on making his job ten times harder than it had to be. His heels clattered against the pavement and he lamented his lack of baton or cricket bat as he rounded on the suspect in an alleyway. The man was easily a foot taller than Sam, and bulky to match – muscles and fat combining to give him the appearance of having been inflated with a bicycle pump.   
  
Sam brandished his badge and shouted for him to get down to the ground, but the assailant pounced on Sam, kicking. It was Sam against the tarmac, his cheek grazing against the rough surface as his stomach received a brutal beating. Gene arrived after a few seconds. He dragged the man off Sam and punched him square in the jaw. The guy went down like a sack of potatoes and Sam got the cuffs out, scrabbling along the ground, keenly feeling his vulnerability.   
  
“I could’ve taken him,” Sam coughed out, spit landing in a slimy globule at his feet.  
  
“You were taking him. Right in the gut, by the looks of it. Do you need a doctor?”  
  
“Piss off.”   
  
“Fine then, if you wanna act all airy fairy, next time you’re getting the living shit kicked out of you, I’ll let you use your specialised kung fu moves of crawling into a ball and sobbing like a four year old.”   
  
“I was not fucking sobbing like a fucking four year old.”  
  
“Oh, you poor thing. Easy to tell you’re angry when you start punctuating your sentences with seven letter words.”  
  
“Yeah? And what about you?” Sam advanced and shoved Gene’s shoulder. “When you’re angry your pupils dilate and you shout at the top of your lungs like a strangled cat.”   
  
“Good thing I’m not angry then, in’t it?”  
  
They glared at one another until a voice interjected. “You gonna take me down station, or what?” Gene stalked over and put his fist in the suspect’s face again, for good measure.  
  
*  
  
Sam cracked his head to the side as he opened the door. He looked at Gene and thought this was as good a time as any to ask why he’d assaulted him in front of the whole of CID. They’d been arguing in their typical fashion, Sam insisting upon one point or another, and Gene had sent him crashing down against a desktop, punching with painful precision.  
  
“What was that about today?”   
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You practically killed me then and there. My shoulder’s still sore from when you pulled at my arm. I know we have our disagreements, but that went beyond you trying to teach me who’s boss. Is there something going on up there that I don’t know about?”  
  
“Given how you usually regard me, thousands of things, I’d say.”  
  
“Give me something. Anything. An indication of what you’re thinking right now. That’s all I want.”  
  
Gene crossed his arms. “I’ve a feeling you won’t like it.”  
  
“Hasn’t stopped you before. What’s the problem?”  
  
Gene’s response was quick and flat. “You are.”  
  
“In what way?”  
  
“How about the way you stare at me and try to coerce me into your every last bidding? Or that smirk when you know you’re getting your own way? You’re too obvious, Sam. Even Chris picks up on it. If you want to know what I’m thinking, it’s this - I’m thinking we made a mistake.”   
  
Sam frowned in confusion. “A mistake?”  
  
Gene lowered his voice, sounding world-weary. “I must’ve been completely insane to let you get under my skin. Because that’s what you did, Sam. You wheedled and crawled your way inside until I couldn’t think straight anymore. All I saw was you.”  
  
“You did the same thing to me. That doesn’t make it a mistake.”  
  
Gene grasped hold of his arm and shook it violently. “Yes, it does. When we’re supposed to be arresting suspects, we’re concentrating on other things. Concentrating on ourselves. We have a duty to uphold.”  
  
“Oh, duty. Of course. You’re always going on about that. And keeping the streets clean. And being a sheriff. But you rush things through and you don’t listen to reason. You contradict yourself constantly. That’s you; say one thing, mean another, do one thing, want another. We can still do our jobs, Gene, but what about ourselves? What about us?”   
  
“Us? What d’you mean? As a couple? As two star-crossed lovers?”  
  
Sam leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah, if that’s how you wanna put it. I wanna know what you think about us. You never say anything. It’s always a kiss or a slap, but since we’re here now, why not let it out?”  
  
Gene set his jaw. “We’re twisted, Sam. I wake up every morning feeling like the world’s spinning outta control, like I’m gonna be sick, knowing what we do together.”  
  
Sam nodded. He’d suspected as much. He tried to take the anger out of his expression, attempted to regulate the tone of his voice. “This isn’t sick, Gene. It isn’t wrong.”  
  
“’Course it bleeding is. Why d’you think we haven’t invited anyone on double dates?”  
  
“Close-mindedness and bigotry,” Sam replied, waving his hand. “That doesn’t make what we have an illness, or something to be despised.”  
  
“What do you think this is, Sammy-boy? True love?” Gene ground out, voice coarse.   
  
Sam dragged his teeth along his knuckle and nipped at the flesh. Gene wrenched his arm away and loomed in with a penetrating stare.   
  
“Well?”  
  
There was no appropriate response, Sam decided. Nothing he could say. The thought of admitting that he might love Gene made his head pulse – and the thought of categorically denying as such made it pulse harder.   
  
Gene saw Sam’s reluctance and appeared to take it as his answer, because he stepped away and gazed enigmatically out of the window. At least, Sam thought Gene was going for ‘enigmatic’ – it could also have been ‘terrified’, ‘relieved’ or ‘constipated’.   
  
“Are you staying here tonight?” Sam asked at last. He coiled his fingers around the top of the bottle of scotch above his cot.   
  
“No.”   
  
Gene walked past Sam. The knob wouldn’t immediately turn and he punched the door. Sam slipped underneath his arm and clicked it into place.  
  
“You broke it last time you forced it open,” he said absently. Gene left without another word.  
  
*  
  
“Boss, why didn’t you come Friday night?” Chris asked, sitting at his desk, chewing and typing one of his many due reports.   
  
“Go where?”   
  
“The strip club, for Davo’s birthday, like?”  
  
Sam gave Chris a cursory glance over the paper in his hand. “No one told me about it.”   
  
“You missed out. We picked up. The Guv scored big time. Girl with the biggest tits you’ve ever seen.”  
  
Sam’s head snapped up. “Scored?”  
  
“Yeah, it were a bit embarrassing, but she went to town on him. Dancing and touching and licking and it’s making me randy again thinking about it.”  
  
“Lucky Guv,” Sam said. He ground his teeth and walked out of the office, making a flimsy excuse. He knew where Gene was. “Thought your wife insisted on your presence Friday night?” he said as soon as he saw him standing over a stack of folders.   
  
He punched as hard as he could. Gene doubled over and gasped for breath. Sam blew cold breath over his knuckles to alleviate some of the physical pain.   
  
**'all the king's horses and all the king's men'**  
  
  
“The last thing I need is you acting like a jealous harlot,” Gene hissed when Sam finally let him speak, in a new, private venue.   
  
“Then don’t lie to me. You know what you could’ve done? You could’ve said ‘look, Sam, I need to make it apparent to our colleagues that I’m not secretly shagging DI Tyler, so I’m gonna get myself a hooker and have a great time.’ I wouldn’t have complained.”  
  
“I need your permission now, do I? Should I run home and get it from the missus too?”  
  
Sam reeled back, like he’d been hit, but Gene had surprisingly kept his hands off him.   
  
“I am not your bit of skirt.”  
  
“Then stop acting like you are. We’ve been through this.” Gene paced from side to side, belt buckle glinting with the light from the lamp.   
  
“Yeah, you’re right, we have.”  
  
Sam placed his hand on Gene’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He turned cold eyes on Sam, pulling one of his hip flasks out of his pocket and unscrewing the lid.   
  
“It had nothing to do with you,” he said, soft tones and sympathy. “Nothing to do with _us._ It were just a bit of fun.” He took a swig of whatever his flask contained, but didn’t offer it to Sam like he had on other occasions.   
  
Sam narrowed his eyes, lifting and tilting his head to stare at an unspecific spot on the wall. “I see.” He sucked in his cheeks. “Actually, I don’t. I thought this was…” He stopped, dragging a hand over his forehead. “God, how stupid am I?”  
  
“Sam.” Gene’s voice held a note of yearning. He pushed close into Sam’s side and wrapped his arms around his back. Sam didn’t resist. He let Gene’s warmth cocoon him. Gene began to change the movement, turn it into something sexual as well as sensual, traced his fingers lightly over Sam’s skin. Sam arched into the touch.   
  
“I feel like the biggest prick in the world,” Sam said, his voice hollow.  
  
“Well, I’ll do my best, Sammy-boy, but there are no guarantees.”  
  
Sam groaned. “There’s no such time as a bad time for puns with you, is there?”  
  
“Oh, was that a pun?” Gene said, mock innocence. “I thought it were an oxymoron or something.”  
  
“You’ll never know how tempting it is to say ‘you’re an oxymoron’,” Sam teased, but there was no real humour there.   
  
Gene kissed him and Sam kissed back, but any and all passion was fervently directed to the empty pit in his stomach, trying to fill the void. They fucked and this time for Sam it was just fucking, sensation and commotion and a deep vein of bitterness. Sam curled his hand around Gene’s cock and pumped, Gene rutting into him. He grasped his own cock, so Gene wouldn’t have to, pulling in a steady rhythm until the energy in him escalated and his movement became erratic. He came before Gene did, calling out Gene’s name, wishing that he didn’t.   
  
Gene grunted, cock spilling sticky and wet in Sam’s fist. Sam cleaned up and Gene lit a cigarette, the scent of tobacco lifting into the air in smoke curlicues. Sam drew a deep breath, half-hoping for nicotine intake that would set his body on balance again, get rid of the nausea brewing slowly but steadily.  
  
“I can’t do this anymore,” Sam said, going to stand by the door. He held out Gene’s coat, hoping it would be message enough.   
  
“We shouldn’t’ve done it in the first place,” Gene replied. He avoided Sam’s searching gaze as he took the camelhair. Sam flicked on the light overhead, the bulb swaying, left and right. Gene walked out the door.   
  
*  
  
He stared into the mirror and spoke with Gene’s staccato. “Stop acting like a sissy, Tyler. I never made any promises. And neither did you.” He closed his eyes and saw Gene’s face, calm passivity switching into throes of passion. After a minute, he opened his eyes again and set to work shaving, nicking into his skin accidentally and watching the blood pool in rivulets. He made his way to the station through habit.  
  
The real Gene looked like hell. Sam thought it strange that he found no consolation in the fact. Sam was assigned to work alongside Chris and he didn’t object. He spent the week giving Chris gentle reminders and advice, acting as a mentor when he couldn’t help but think that he needed one himself.   
  
“You okay, boss?”   
  
“I’m fine, Chris.”  
  
“You don’t seem fine. You’re almost as crazy as when you first arrived from Hyde.” Chris jumped at Sam’s sharp reaction. “Sorry, didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
“I understand what you mean. It’s just-”  
  
“Annie and her new bloke?”  
  
“I didn’t know she had one.” Sam sighed. “No, it’s not Annie and her new bloke. Can we drop the subject?”   
  
Chris turned the conversation onto the topic of Ray’s latest conquest, obviously not understanding the concept of leaving well enough alone. He’d been speaking for ten minutes, Sam barely listening, when he said something that arrested Sam’s attention, “So Ray said he’d invite him, ‘cause the Guv’s wife’s out of town, d’you think that’s a good idea?”  
  
“No, I believe the Guv’s already got plans,” Sam lied. He helped Chris finish his report and left the station early.   
  
Hours later, he stood on Gene’s doorstep, swaying with the alcohol he’d imbibed, knocking forcefully. Gene opened the door and then attempted to close it again.  
  
“We need to talk,” Sam said rapidly. He pressed his hand to the door and pushed.  
  
“I’m sick of talking.”  
  
Sam pushed again, his head pounding. “I don’t care. I need to resolve this, Gene.”  
  
“There’s no resolution to be found.”  
  
“There is. Let me in.”  
  
The door opened and Sam entered, casting a quick look around Gene’s house. Gene looked tired, eyes dull in the curtain-filtered light. Sam stood where he was and jittered, feeling very much like a wind-up toy, storing kinetic energy.  
  
“Say what you have to say and get out,” Gene said. He didn’t make any attempt to move near Sam.   
  
“You know what?” Sam said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I will say it. What we talked about, all those days ago. I’ll just go ahead and blurt it out, so you’ll’ve scored your final victory.” Sam slowed the words down, pausing for emphasis, arching his body forward. “I love you. There. Satisfied now? You won. I love you and you --- you hate me.”   
  
“I don’t hate you,” Gene said quietly.   
  
The pitch of Sam’s voice increased. “What is it about me that means I don’t deserve love, hey? What is it about Sam Tyler that means he gets to be alone?”  
  
Gene finally sprang into action. He yanked Sam toward him, until there was hardly an inch between their bodies. He held onto Sam, his fingers digging into the flesh, poking harder at the end of every sentence.  
  
“Sam Tyler doesn’t even exist, does he? He’s a figment. You – you’re Sam Williams. You’re fucking cracked in the head, you won’t let anyone know who you really are. You expect to be understood – you expect to be worshipped and wanted. Well, you are wanted, Sam. I wish to high fucking heaven you weren’t, but somehow I find it difficult to get by without you. I don’t get it. I don’t get you.”  
  
Sam choked, bile rising in his throat. He hadn’t anticipated an onslaught. He’d thought Gene would remain silent as ever. He never guessed that Gene gave Sam Williams a second thought.  
  
“I am Sam Tyler,” he said, the words sounding distant and foreign. “Sam Williams was the figment. None of that was real.”  
  
Gene stared at him as if he were an alien. “Nothing is real with you. The first words you ever said to me were, ‘What year is it supposed to be?’, as if it could be any other. You talk about things that haven’t happened and never could happen. Will you ever manage to explain that to me?”  
  
Sam stared at the vomit green carpet, until Gene pushed his chin up and made him look into his eyes. He answered softly. “Probably not.”  
  
Gene kept his hand under Sam’s chin, but caressed it now, his fingers gliding gently. “But you expect me to sacrifice everything – everything I know, for you. For your childish whims. We’ll never buy a house together, Sam. We’ll never walk down the street holding hands. And I wouldn’t fucking want to. But you act like we should. You act like it’s all perfectly normal. Right.”  
  
“It is right,” Sam said. He grabbed Gene’s hand and placed it over his chest, his heart beating erratically. “This is right.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Gene replied. He dipped his head. “But I can’t believe that.”   
  
Clouds must have parted in the sky, because the room was suddenly flush with an orange glow. It was at such odds with the atmosphere that Sam wanted to laugh. And he did, half-heartedly, bringing his lips to Gene’s wrist, because he needed to taste him one last time.  
  
*  
  
Work became everything. It was all he had. Night fell and Sam had scotch and case files. Not even a girl from a Test Card to keep him company. Not that he really wished for that again. The new kind of dull, aching normal was still preferable to talking radios. Sam spent increased time in his flat, thinking about things he couldn’t erase from his memory, distracting himself with things that would haunt him for years to come. The vagaries of humanity, spread out in crime scene photographs and witness reports.   
  
Once or twice, Sam slumped in one of his second-hand chairs and waited until the sun rose, the rays peeking out from the edge of his curtains - mocking him.   
  
**'how I wonder what you are'**  
  
Even cases were constructed to torture Sam. Criminals were getting away with murder – quite literally – left, right and centre. And even though he knew it was immoral to think it, that it made him a degenerate, it wasn’t even exciting anymore, chasing after them, tracking them down. There was no verve to the vim and vigour. Only the stress of expectations and the reality of people getting hurt.  
  
“It was just luck,” Chris said about their latest aborted attempt at justice, sounding despondent.   
  
“Bad luck,” Ray added. He paused for a change of subject. “Is it just me, or is the Guv back to that state where he holes himself up in his office and doesn’t come out for love nor money. D’you think his wife’s left him again?”   
  
Chris pushed his teeth into his lower lip, obviously considering the question.  
  
Annie joined the conversation, setting her cup of tea down. “That would make sense. He doesn’t seem to want to interact anymore.”  
  
“I never knew his wife ever left him,” Sam said, keeping his voice casual. His eyes were trained on the pen in his hand.  
  
“Yeah. She goes up north and visits her sister. But for half the year.”  
  
Sam continued writing with a sweeping action, ignoring the uproar rising in his stomach. He allowed the others the freedom to discuss whatever they wanted as he drifted into his own thoughts and emotions, the pressure mounting within him.   
  
He cornered Gene in the lift. He eased past the doors before they closed and pressed the emergency stop button. The metal walls enhanced the volume of their words, adding a tinny echo to sentences that were probably better left unspoken.   
  
“Am I too much for you?” Sam said; insecurity and fear. “Is that it?”  
  
Gene stared, the longest he had maintained eye contact with Sam since their clandestine meetings had come to an end. “No, that’s not it. If anything, you’re not enough for me, Sam.”  
  
He brought his fist against the emergency stop button, shifting until he was facing away. They may have been nearly as close as they had ever been, according to physical proximity, but they couldn’t have been further apart. Sam curled his hands into tight fists, his fingernails digging into his skin. Gene left him alone in the lift, silence stretching with his departure, and Sam arrived on a storey of the station he had never been before, until he pressed the button for ground floor and exited the building.  
  
Too much. Not enough. It was him again. It was them again. But these emotions hadn’t dissipated. He hadn’t found himself wishing Gene the best of luck in all future endeavours. If he were a greater man, perhaps he could. But he was that petulant kid, wanting a chopper, not a strika. Wanting all the bells, whistles and reflectors. And wanting to ride, day and night. Showing off.   
  
He didn’t even realise it, until it was too late.   
  
To blot it out, to get rid of it, Sam drank. He drank ridiculous amounts that didn’t seem to be sufficient. He didn’t know the threshold for alcohol poisoning, but he did know that he wanted to reach it. Sam clutched onto the back of the chair – the chair that seemed to say, ‘alright then, you’ve had enough’, and gasped in a deep breath before his legs crumpled beneath him. He was out like a light, darkness surrounding him, but he wasn’t dead. The vultures, as real or as unreal as they were, would have to wait another day.   
  
Sometimes, life was all Sam had.   
  
*  
  
He saw him constantly in his peripheral vision, haunting him, a spectre. He hated and loved it at the same time. Gene spent less time in his office, more time with the rest of CID, beginning to co-ordinate again, if co-ordination was really an apt description of barking nonsensical orders. They weren’t always nonsensical, but that’s how Sam preferred to think of them in his moments of spite.   
  
Gene strode through the office, pointing and directing, the Guv in his domain. “Chris, I want that report on my desk by Monday. Cartwright, you go with Ray to that derelict building where those old gits said they saw something.”  
  
Sam didn’t tell Gene he could change. He thought it. And he could. He knew he could. He wasn’t as cynical as others might be. He believed that people could transform and adjust. He could learn to accept whatever Gene was offering. But not being with him, not talking to him, it was more than he could cope with. No matter how many times he called himself a pansy, complete with Gene Hunt imitation and self-hatred, he knew he wasn’t getting over this. He missed conversations about his own stupidity, Gene’s superiority, the best methods for escaping irate school caretakers. He missed Gene.  
  
Of course, talking to Gene didn’t occupy his thoughts as often as Gene pounding into him did. Or the look on Gene’s face when he came. Or his hand on Sam’s cock, fingertips rubbing in maddening circles. Sam wanked with practiced efficiency, but it was always an intensely solitary affair - he didn’t like to think of Gene in those moments, it always struck him as painfully desperate. Not that he wasn’t.   
  
It was those times when Gene had shown something other than pure carnal lust, those looks and that dependency that cascaded through his thoughts the most. Gene had said Sam got under his skin, and as cruel as it might make him, Sam savoured the notion, because at least that meant he’d affected him on a deeper level than Gene was willing to truthfully admit in a simple four letter word. He’d initially taken everything Gene had said on face value. But Gene was like Sam, he kept some things concealed – not out of malice, but protection.   
  
Gene was a better actor than Sam was. He showed signs of normalcy. Or perhaps he recovered with more speed than Sam could, decided that all this moping lark was pointless. Because he was surely not skipping merrily through fields of green, even metaphorically. Gene was close to as miserable as he was. Sam could see that in the decline in energy, in his inability to come up with witty insults. He spewed less vitriolic rants against harmless groups of citizens and avoided getting involved in office discussions.   
  
Sam mused about it when he should have been musing on the state of affairs regarding houses along three streets being robbed in what he presumed was a carefully assembled pattern. He considered it as he went through statements and wrote out instructions for Chris to meticulously follow. He did so as he sat at his desk now, typing with monotonous routine.  
  
There was a tap on his shoulder. Sam knew instinctively who it was from. He leaned back into the touch, but minutely, not enough to warrant Gene recoiling. Gene didn’t recoil. He crept closer, bending down over Sam. The intimacy was familiar and soothing.   
  
“You need to stop locking yourself away,” Gene said, his mouth by Sam’s ear and his voice low. “You’re going to be at the pub tonight. No excuses.”  
  
This was Gene reaching out. This was Gene putting his stubborn nature to the side and engaging with Sam, despite the risk. The revelation came to Sam with breath-stealing force. He agreed to Gene’s terms, as authoritarian as they were. He agreed and he turned them over in his mind, picking them apart and analysing them. Deconstructing and reconstructing.   
  
Sometimes, life was completely unexpected.  
  
*  
  
Sam sat by himself in a corner of the Railway Arms, examining his empty glass. He was vaguely cognisant of movement to his side.  
  
Gene brought the other chair out from under the table and sat down. “Want a beer?”  
  
Sam opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He shook his head and choked back his confusion. “I’d love one.”  
  
“Go get it, then. And make mine a scotch.”  
  
Comment would have been inadequate. Banal. Sam stood and ordered the drinks from Nelson. He looked back over his shoulder to find Gene’s eyes raking up and down his figure. When he met Sam’s eyes, he gave what was almost a smile, the corners of his lips lifting and his eyebrows raising. Sam studied him and saw something he hadn’t seen before – an acceptance that made his heart beat faster with latent promise.  
  
Sometimes, life held hope.  
  
  
 **‘merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream’**  
  
  
Sam let his lips roam, heat and taste. He clutched onto Gene’s collar and dragged him forward.  
  
Gene started speaking, “This will never be anything-”  
  
Sam interrupted. “I don’t care.” He placed his mouth on Gene’s, stifling Gene’s words.   
  
But Gene pulled away, stared at him, burning and honest. “I wish it could be.”  
  
Sam stared back. “That’s okay.”  
  
Sam captured Gene’s lower lip again, pressing his tongue into the warmth, brushing his hand up into Gene’s hair and clutching. He didn’t think, he just felt. He just wanted to feel. And he forgot about everything. About what he’d always expected from life and love. About what he’d thought he understood.   
  
And it wasn’t happily ever after. There were no childish fantasies fulfilled. But it was enough.


End file.
